Life in Numbers
by bedrocksoul
Summary: Love, loss, suffering, regret. Merely trying to survive in a world that doesn't want you. Finding yourself; losing yourself. It all blends together in this place. AU/AH: MATURE THEMES.
1. Prologue

**Life in Numbers: This fic is dark and graphic. Scenes of violence and abuse will be explored. If you are not comfortable with such scenes, I humbly suggest reading elsewhere. **

~*~

Growing up, I'd never given much thought to how I would die.

It always seemed morbid; pessimistic; depressing… all around unrealistic.

Why would I dwell on my inevitable death, when I had so much life left to live?

Three years ago, that changed. Three years ago my life was stolen. No, not stolen. It was surrendered. I lost myself, my future, my present, my love… my life. And what did I have left, other than my past?

Now, as I lay on the cold concrete floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, I can't help but dwell. It's time to consider that question. Was this how I would die?

A resounding _yes_ echoed through my unstable mind.

If you had asked me three years ago if my death would involve any one of the several circumstances surrounding my current precarious conditions, I would have laughed. The idea would have been wholly unrealistic; impossible. I was on top of the world, ready to take it on in stride. Eager to learn and to succeed. Eager to live.

I feel my throat groan and manage to force my arms to cooperate. They burn, as does every other cell in my body. I cannot concentrate on the pain. I know if I let it, it will consume me. And I'm not ready just yet.

With some effort, my palms are flat against the ground. The ground, which I can vaguely recognize as smeared with blood. _My blood. _My body coughs involuntarily and I can feel the bile rising in my throat. It will come any second now, and I need to move myself so that I don't end up dying in a flood of my own vomit.

I push myself up on my hands, slowly straightening my elbows. Pain doesn't begin to describe the sensation that courses through my body. It comes from deep within my bones, through my muscles and my veins. Through my flesh, begging me to give in. The pain tries to encompass me, but I don't let it. I can't let it.

When the coroner washes the blood from my face, I don't want it to be mixed with my vomit. I know it's a strange thing, this desire, but I want to save my corpse this one last humiliation.

God knows it'll be the only shred of dignity I can spare for myself.

In the background, I can hear voices. They're distant, they're mixing together, and I can't make out a single word. No, all of my concentration is on relocating my body. All of my strength, my focus, goes into this one last act.

I look up and see the tiled wall before me. I can hear water running. I can hear shouting. Feet shuffling. More shouting.

The grout between the tiles blends, and I can no longer see the distinct squares. I can't open my eyes far, but they're open enough to know that the world is spinning circles around me.

And the pain is shifting into a dull throbbing all over as my body adjusts to it.

And the bile is still coming.

Faster, now.

For all my efforts, my chest is still merely inches off of the floor. I'm shaking, and the slick effect that my blood has created is making the task of lifting myself all the more difficult.

I can't see. I can't move, and I can't hear. And I know that I'm almost beyond feeling. For all intents and purposes, I'm already dead. Everything within me is revolting against me, shutting down organ by organ as the last of my senses eludes me.

My torso is almost a foot from the floor now. How much time has passed? The shouting is nearing. The vomit is, too.

For all this, though, I can't regret the things that brought me here. While I might have handled things differently, might have waited and thought things through, or might have practiced more self control that night, I can't regret it.

I did what I knew had to be done. And the monster had deserved it. The monster had earned what it had received, and although my actions put me in this shit hole, the monster had been punished.

I owed it to her. To Alice.

Her image is in my head and I would smile if it didn't hurt. If there is a pretty picture to die to, it is one of my beautiful sister's laughing face.

I feel something hard and heavy draped over my shaking body. The fabric burns me and I can't hold it in any longer. I'm grateful for my enforced diet in that moment. It's the first time I can feel anything but loathsome toward it, but it makes the vomit come up easily.

I look to the floor that is covered by my insides with blurred vision. More red. My fate has been sealed. Of course, I sealed it on my own volition, but it is sealed tightly. The red promises me one thing: that my end is nearing.

I can feel a gurgling noise coming from my throat and I want it to stop. I'd do anything to make it stop. It's not pleasant death music. I suppose it's poetic, though. Ugly music for an ugly situation. And ugly situation for an ugly life. I will see the monster in hell; I know this.

I try to move myself so that when my arms give, I do not fall into the mess I've created. And I did create this mess, rest assured.

I don't blame anyone but myself. I know why I am here and I know why I am _here_.

I deserve this, just as the monster before me deserved it. And I welcome it.

It has, without a doubt, been the most unimaginably difficult three months.

But I don't have time to reflect on my wrongdoings, and those few things that I did right, as I can feel the muscles in my arms beginning the fail.

With one last effort, I try to distance myself from the coated concrete. It's futile. Pain shoots through my limbs and I can't hold myself up anymore.

I deserve to die in a pool of my blood and bile. With a sense of finality, I realize that I cannot spare my body that last humiliation. _It doesn't even matter_. I feel my body dropping quickly and I gasp, the pain returning with the impact. My eyes close as my cheek presses into the floor.

I give in to the darkness that's begging to take me.

~*~


	2. Thirtyfour

**Life in Numbers: This fic is dark and graphic. Scenes of violence and abuse will be explored. If you are not comfortable with such scenes, I humbly suggest reading elsewhere. **

~*~

"Shit, Edward," I heard. My head pounded and my eyes were on fire.

A loud crash followed shortly after. "_Shit_," it came again.

I forced one eye open and glared at the intruder as much as I could.

"The fuck?" The afternoon sun stung.

I looked at the blaring clock. Jake was stumbling his way through the bedroom to that general vicinity.

My heavy eyes fell shut as I pushed myself up on my elbows.

I reached to the bedside table, fumbling aimlessly for the button. The incessant screeching needed to stop.

I silenced the offending noise at the same time that I heard the door slam shut. I vaguely heard muttered oaths with my name attached. I couldn't concentrate on that right now.

I groped around the wood, my eyes still shut and still burning, my throat burning more.

I found the nearly empty bottle of vodka and devoured its contents. The burning eased momentarily, as I choked down the final drops.

I wondered briefly at why my alarm was set to begin with. In this place, the days blended together. There really wasn't a morning or night, and I hadn't heard the drone of that familiar buzz in weeks. I knew it meant something, but I couldn't pinpoint what.

It didn't matter.

I felt for the cigarettes. Instead my hand reached the plastic on the table. It didn't matter. I haphazardly snorted the powder and fell back onto my pillow, my body curling itself tightly while I waited for the shaking to lessen. I knew it wouldn't go away – not completely – but it would be bearable soon.

Eventually, I opened my eyes and stood, stumbling toward the bathroom. I kicked a shirt out of the way. I couldn't remember whose it was. The days were so contorted and blurred that I couldn't keep track. If you asked me what had happened last night, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I let my mind wander over the events of yesterday, but short of a few menial tasks, I came up blank.

It was a necessary evil. I didn't mind so much. As a rule, there was nothing to look forward to or look back on.

So I stood there, naked in the bathroom, inspecting my face for damage. This had become a normal morning ritual that was second nature to me. Bruises and cuts were not uncommon. I tended to make a habit of creating enemies for myself.

I wasn't beyond recognizing that I looked like shit, but I _was_ beyond caring. I blew out an exaggerated breath and reached for the toothbrush.

I paused momentarily. I knew what was coming. The same thing that came every morning. And every evening. And a few times in between.

I closed my eyes and breathed. My fingers were shaking and reaching for the pack of cigarettes that I knew sat loyally on back of the toilet. I pulled one out with trembling hands but was seasoned enough to realize that it'd do no good now. It was going to come, and it was going to come hard.

And it did come. In mere moments I was doubled over, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that I hit the toilet rather than the sink, and emptying the contents of my stomach.

Fortunately, there was little in the way of solid food. It had been that way lately.

Unfortunately, the morning's liquor had gone to waste.

I marveled at my acknowledgment of seemingly insignificant fact, before clutching my stomach and releasing the remaining fluid. It was all bile, and it was disgusting. I was disgusting.

I stood straight, trying to see myself in the cracked mirror. My vision was blurry and distorted and I couldn't get a clear read on my features. The hands reached for the water and, not without some difficulty, were able to locate the valves. They turned it on their own accord and this was fine by me. I didn't have the concentration.

I brushed my teeth mechanically. I washed my face mechanically. It wouldn't be long before I'd need another hit. I took it prematurely because… yeah. I took it prematurely.

I stood in the shower and let the scalding water wash over me. It made me more awake than before, my eyes seeming to gain a little more focus. I turned my face toward the showerhead and let the water drown me. The hot liquid on cold skin felt nice. It was something like being on fire… but a good kind? It made me feel alive. Made me feel like I could feel.

I took my time, washing myself thoroughly. I could hear the phone ringing from the other room but ignored it. I let my hands run along the side of my torso, the thirty-four stitch scar there changing the texture of my skin. I smiled in spite of myself.

I remembered the nurse at the hospital – young, blonde, completely taken by the bad-boy bullshit that girls sometimes tend to get taken by. She tried to hold my hand while the doctor sewed my flesh together. Instead, she got the exciting task of holding the bucket while I puked.

"_You smell like popcorn,"_ I said to her. I don't know why my brain thought I should say that. But it did, so I did. Side effect. She grimaced and asked if I was okay. I winced and nodded. The doctor was still there. Sitting on his stool. Doing some fucking needlepoint thread art on my burning body. He didn't look amused.

The odd thing about that nurse was not that she smelled vaguely of popcorn. Or even that she was able to keep a pleasant enough attitude while I puked my weight in alcohol. The odd thing was that she gave me her number. And what I gave her in return was equally odd, given my situation. I gave the best fake smile I could muster and a half-salute.

I saw her once at the grocery store once. She was buying condoms. Funny how that works.

~*~

"_Edward!"_

_Tanya shouted my name. I handed her the bottle of vodka I was guarding with my life. She had her fill and then handed it back to me. I finished it off._

"_You wanna get out of here?" I had leaned toward her, as I had planned my suggestion to be subtle. As it turned out, though, I had to shout over the music. _

_I didn't go to parties like this often. The loud kind that you see in movies where the girls are in black leather and the guys are in button downs and the lights are all colorful and shiny and flashing all over the place. I didn't do these raves. _

_Tanya had requested me, though, and I was at her service for the evening. She had what I wanted. _

_I didn't intend for the turn of events that proceeded, but this was one of those movie parties – the ones where the girls are all black leather and skin and tight fabric and you sort of can't help yourself? This was one of those parties._

_Tanya nodded and grabbed my hand, dragging me into another room. Into a hallway. Up a flight of stairs. Down a hall. Down a different hall. _

_It was like a maze. I wasn't sure how I'd get out of this fucking maze. _

_We made it to a bedroom and she closed us in, quickly dumping the contents of her purse on the soiled bedspread. She pulled out a prescription bottle and handed me two. I took them without incident or even thought. She pulled out a pipe. I smoked it._

_And chased it all with the rum. _

_And after my pants were back on, and after I stood up, it was very dark. And so I had another drink and made to ditch the party. It sounded like it was mostly over anyway._

_But it was pitch black and Tanya was lying on the bed all naked and glorious with remnants of cocaine on her stomach and I made the mistake of looking back._

_And I smashed into something, hard. And I fell, harder. And I could see the blood seeping through my shirt but I could really only laugh and I could hear Tanya laughing and she stood and made her way over to where I was sitting, dazed, and lifted up my shirt. _

_I expected something pleasurable to come from that and it did. She started kissing my neck and then her hand traveled down my side and it fucking stung. _

_I felt myself hiss without realizing I was doing it and Tanya pulled her hand away and turned on the light and then she laughed. But it was one of those scared-type laughs where the girl is laughing but is also sort of hysterical._

_And so eventually I was at the free clinic at the hospital. My name was John and I was a 26 year old truck driver because that's what Tanya had said to them. And that's where I met the nurse, and that's where I sat on the bed, and that's where the doctor had done his artwork on my stomach._

And, come to think of it, that's where I first saw her.


	3. Three

**Life in Numbers: This fic is dark and graphic. Scenes of violence and abuse will be explored. If you are not comfortable with such scenes, I humbly suggest reading elsewhere. **

~*~

"Hey, uhh…" _Shit_. "It's just me…" _Shit_. "Emmett…" _Shit._ "It's 10:40… I'm going to go ahead and order another coffee…" _Fuck. _"If you get this, give me a call."

I lit the cigarette my fingers were holding and brought it to my mouth. Maybe it would loosen the stomach muscles. Maybe it would keep the bile inside, where it belonged.

I sat down too quickly, reaching for jeans, and felt a wave of nausea rush over me. I managed to steady myself and looked at the clock. 3:46. I tried to remember what my plans _had_ been. I ambled to the papers that littered my decrepit dresser and flipped through them, as the next message started.

"Edward – are you okay? Look, bro, I can come up. I… I want to – to come up. If you need anything, let me know."

_Shit_. I found the note I had scribbled sometime last week.

_Emmett –_

_10:00 Thursday –_

_Moe's –_

_Shoot me now –_

_Please –_

The next message played as I continued stumbling into clothing.

"It's 11:45… I guess I'm gonna head off. Give me a call if you get this, okay?"

"End of new messages. Check erased messages."

I exhaled and just as quickly took another drag. It burned the good burn. The worst was over. At least he left. I set my phone down, steadying myself on the dresser, and left the bedroom for the first time that morning that day.

Jacob was still in bed. It wasn't unusual to party until dawn and sleep well into the evening. Someone was passed out on the couch. Someone was always passed out on the couch. In this house, you never knew who it was and you never knew when they'd leave. I didn't care to see them and I didn't care for them to see me. What I needed was more liquor. I searched the kitchen fruitlessly until I finally came across a bottle of gin. It would do. I tilted the bottle and let the liquid assault my throat.

It burned going down, just as it would coming up. I took the pilfered bottle and stumbled my way back to my bedroom, sitting on the bed and closing my eyes. Heroin this time. I nodded to myself and smiled. A slow, inward smile that made my mouth hurt. I looked at the books scattered on the floor. I looked at the mess that was my life but didn't care. I closed my eyes and let myself be calm for a few minutes. The calm wouldn't last, but it didn't matter. It was here now.

And the calm ended much sooner than I had originally anticipated. The phone rang.

"Yeah?" I answered, bleary still. I was never lucid anymore. I couldn't remember half the shit that was said to me.

"Edward," came Emmett's booming voice.

"Jesus."

"Jesus fucking Christ is right, Edward. Where the fuck were you this morning?"

My eyes were closed and I lay back on the bed, my body automatically curling itself. "I'm sorry," I finally said. I wouldn't be fooling anyone by saying I'm a patient person. And I'm not big on apologies. I once spoke with a psychologist who so very observantly informed me that I might face issues with being confrontational at some point in my life. She wound up losing her license over some doctor-patient boundaries suit that the parents of this sixteen year old kid filed. Or so I heard.

To be fair, my source was unreliable.

I wasn't really sorry, though. I guess even the terminally confrontational have their hard limits. I wasn't up for a fight. I thought about asking Emmett if he knew whatever ended up happening with her, but I couldn't remember her name. He interrupted me anyway.

"Well, no shit," Emmett said, exaggerating surprise. "Sorry, eh? I'll be goddamned."

"Jesus." I grumbled, lighting a cigarette. I inhaled deeply and it burned deeply. Everything goddam burned anymore.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Where are you really?"

"Home."

"You mean that shithole you're pretending to live in?"

"Fuck you."

"I'm outside."

"Point?"

"You damn well fucking know the point, baby brother. Your mom's a train wreck. At least come out so I can tell her you aren't dead."

I sat there silently, staring at the wall, momentarily phased by his admonishment. I wasn't naïve enough to believe that my mother gave two shits about me. Emmett was the only family member who maintained any contact at all, and even he struggled to force himself care. I didn't blame them. I was the fuckup in the family. The one everyone had the highest hopes for. The one who fell the hardest.

I smiled in spite of myself.

"Yeah, okay," I said, standing. I don't know why I said it. I knew I'd regret it at some point over the course of the evening, but the words slipped from my mouth on their own volition. I snapped the phone shut, miffed with myself. I stretched. I put on a clean t-shirt. Well, as clean as I had available to me.

For some reason that I couldn't pinpoint, I didn't want Emmett to see me like this. He knew I was like this. I knew I was like this. But having to look at him while he had to look at me was a repulsive thought. I don't know why he bothered coming at all. I was repulsive.

On the way out the door, I looked in the mirror and ran my hands through my hair. I looked like shit, alright.

I finished off the bottle for good measure.

I fidgeted absently with the three small keys around my neck as I shakily made my way out the front door.

I felt the nausea rising but I pushed myself forward. I really didn't want this to happen. I tried to come up with a way for this not to happen but I couldn't. I went back upstairs and brushed my teeth.

When it was given to me, I didn't understand. I didn't understand anything. Keys? I felt like I was growing up and getting something special and secretive and important, but I just couldn't work it out yet. I almost lost them at least seven times from when I was five until I was nineteen. I remember each time as its own event. My poor mother and her poor unattainable dreams.

Even as I stood at the doorway, my hand on the knob, waiting to see my brother face to face for the first time in over a year, I recognized how pathetically I turned out. I hoped Emmett would do better. For her.

~*~

"_This one," she said, placing the first key into my palm, "Is for Emmett. It opens his toy box downstairs."_

_My mom smiled at me as closed my fingers around the gold key, a replica of the one that Emmett guarded with his life. _

"_This one," she continued, sticking a similarly sized silver one into my now-opened hand, "Is for Jasper… Don't tell anyone, but it's just like the one that opens his desk." I felt so grown up… like I was being let in on a secret and that if I told anyone everything would be ruined. They weren't full-size keys, so I figured they wouldn't work, but the way my mom spoke of them gave them a power over me. _

"_And this one," she whispered, "is for you. It's a key to the piano room."_

_I couldn't even think about the first two keys after that. My father was fiercely protective of his piano, and he was giving me a key. I felt like I was on top of the world. I was as pride as any child who won his parents seal of approval could be. She pulled out a long chain and helped me string the keys on it, spending extra time on each._

"_My boys…" My mom spoke softly, frazzling my hair. I hated when she did that. It always made me feel like a little kid. Granted, I was only five. _

I held on to Jasper's key just a fraction too long and stepped into the cool Seattle breeze.


End file.
